It Happened

To your hiding place by the bathroom door,

“Mom exploded. It was hell.” I texted those 5 words to 3 people—my older brother, my best friend, and my therapist.

Grandma called me that morning around 9. I was scrubbing my teeth in the bathroom and just about to rinse when I see her name flash across my phone screen. My teeth clamp down on the toothbrush and I swipe right to pick up. “Grandma!” I manage to squeal with my minty foam mouth but not without spraying the mirror in front of me with Colgate and saliva.

I know that when Grandma calls, it’s always gonna be about food. The good stuff. She spent 36 years of her life cooking for a hole-in-the wall restaurant in Chinatown, where the most delightful fusion of sesame oil, oyster sauce, and ginger would greet you then cloak you upon entry. This time, she had prepared some braised pork shoulder with caramelized onions and a pitcher of iced honey jasmine tea that I hoped would taste as refreshing as it sounds.

Mom, upon hearing who I’m talking to, stands up, and marches over to where I am in 3 quick strides, a sudden move that causes a blank piece of printer paper to flutter to the floor. She holds out her hand. I hesitate but end up handing the phone to her.

“Where’s the money?” My mom could care less about the food. She’s more interested in pocketing this month’s $5,000 from my uncle, Michael, who had agreed to send the checks via my grandma.

“I have it. I’ll give it to Esther when I bring over the food.” Those words do nothing to calm my Mom.

“Do you see how things are right now with this family? Look at the relationship between me and Michael! It’s all because of you. All the things you’ve failed to do. And I will remind you every single time what a useless mother you’ve been to us. Don’t bother bringing the food.”

When my mom’s angry, her eyes become a darker shade of black. Her tone loses its melody and falls flat. There’s a forcefulness in her demeanor. She doesn’t ask. There isn’t a “Please” or “Thank you.” No “Hellos” or “Goodbyes.” The only thing she wants is to be obeyed. She becomes less of a mom and more of a roommate who isn’t looking to be friends. I’ve found that silence is the easiest way for me to get by.

That night, however, I become the lone target of my Mom’s fury. I forgot to stay silent and committed the crime of talking back.

“You’re just like Grandma. You’re the exact reason why our family is the way it is. Because of your stupid divorce plan, you don’t even know how to love your own children day in and day out. You think having a meal or two with us on the weekends makes you a mother? What the hell is that gonna do for us?”

For the briefest of seconds, my mom just stands there in the doorway, frozen. And when that second is up, she spits out the words, “Ungrateful child.”

She flies to the living room and starts digging around for a scissor, then viciously cuts up 3 photos—all of me. She then attacks the pink, red, and white crepe streamers which had been framing the construction paper cut-outs that spelled the words “Happy Mother’s Day.” They’re now shredded, crushed, and trampled. She loved the decorations when I first hung them up. There was a childlike giddiness in her that day. I swear I saw a twinkle in her eyes.

“GET OUUUTTTT! Get out of my house. I want you out!” She howls at the ceiling. Two arms start flapping up and down. Her head is shaking side to side and her eyes are shut tight so she doesn’t notice when I’ve left the room.

I run and find solace in the bathroom—a fresh roll of toilet paper for my tears, a cool tiled floor for my heated face to lie against, and the droplets of Colgate and saliva from this morning. Before all the chaos. My shoulders shudder and I’m gasping for air. I close the door behind me and slump to the floor, pull my legs in, and hug my thighs. My head hangs, finding rest on my knees.

I hear my little brother talking to my mom outside. “Do you get it, Mom? Do you get what Esther’s talking about? The divorce may have been good for you. Fine. You needed to find your peace away from Dad. But the violence between you two—it never stopped… and resentment found its way into the rest of the family once you signed the papers. Look at us. Who can live like this?”

I stand up, leave the bathroom, and inch towards the dining room.

“Because the children… there are children here… they want to grow up but they can’t…and some of them don’t know how to talk to people… they start… they start… taking drugs and…”

I see my little brother, who’s not so little anymore but still the baby of the family. His shoulders shudder and he’s gasping for air. Diagnosed with ADHD at 3 years old. Fighting social anxiety at age 14. Turning to meth just 2 years later. He collapses. Right where the shredded pieces of pink, red, and white have fallen. Mom is there to catch him. She gathers his crumpled body, all 138 pounds of it, in her arms. To her, he’s still the skinny newborn she breast fed 22 years ago. No more words are exchanged that night.

Sincerely, Esther